The Face Behind the Mask
by ttd
Summary: ANBU. A look at the realities behind the image, and the casualties of the corps. ABANDONED


Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Naruto franchise. I am borrowing it for purely non-profit purposes.

**A Face Behind the Mask  
**

Looking out over the city roofs, he watched the light as it made it's way from the stunning red, brown, orange and gold horizon to brush the top of the mountain, before slowly inching it's way down the bare rock. This time of the morning, as dawn broke with the cool freshness of the air, the release of night's stifling grasp and the sublime moments that the sun seemed to be reborn for the new day (only visible, naturally on those few, rare days where neither cloud nor mist obscured) was beautiful. It was stunning. It was truly beyond the power of words to describe. It did nothing to help his mood.

Snorting disgustedly, whether at the scenery or himself he knew not, the mask-wearing figure disappeared into the apartment whose balcony rail he had been occupying the moment before.

Removing the blank white mask, stained with a dried misting of black, he revealed the twisted frown he wore underneath. As he began removing his armour, checking for minor imperfections, dents and scrapes, he broke out into a full scowl, finding nothing but bloodstains.

'After all of that, I don't even have a scratch.'

In the distance, he could just make out the first notes of the dawn chorus.

The pieces of armour and the surgically white towel upon which they had been carefully placed were violently swept from the table into the wall with a bang, the armour scattering over the room's wooden floorboards with a clatter.

He was in a foul temper.

-

Looking absently over the little groups of chattering students outside the college, all full of life and purpose, chattering away between themselves while eating, scattered over the benches and grass under the trees of the college grounds, he wondered what it was like to be one of them. No worries, no pressure, no danger; friends, family and the need to _pass_ the year the only things mattering.

He snorted to himself. He may be just 16 years old, but he had long ago learnt the harsh realities of the world. He had become one himself.

The ANBU turned back from the darkened window as the administrator signaled that the captain would see him. He left the drab, off-white room, the water stains on the generic office ceiling paneling as well as the walls and the dark, amorphous flooring that once may have claimed to have been a carpet fully dissuading any use of the term 'sterile', only to enter another. This one had the same furniture, but while in the other room there were many worn grey office desks, separated into tight cubicles by screens of grey fabric, fluffy mostly to dust attracted to the synthetic material over the years, this room had a grim line of solid grey filing cabinets and a single desk, with the only chair in the room behind it. It was surprisingly small for an office of such importance and brightly lit, in that unhealthy, artificial way only strip-lights can achieve. There were no windows.

The figure behind the desk, incongruous in such a scene, was wearing a blank mask and full ANBU armour over a medium frame. That he was male, not heavily tanned and had dark hair was all that one could glean from his appearance, and even then the figure entering the office was not entirely sure it wasn't misleading in itself as he came to stand in front of the desk, feet apart, hands clasped behind his back in a respectful, yet relaxed stance. ANBU did not recognise the need for misplaced formality.

The captain -though naturally, there was no distinguishing insignia recognising him as such- looked up from the file he had rapidly skimmed.

"Let's be frank," started the captain abruptly, "While your assignments have all been completed successfully, you have made absolutely no progress in regaining your professional detachment. In fact, from all accounts, you have actually _regressed_! If you continue to fail in gaining some emotional separation from what you are doing, you will become a serious liability, not only to yourself, but to this organisation, and the village itself."

Here, the captain paused , looked down and sighed, his tone softening "We have had this conversation before," looking up, directly into his subordinate's eyes, "and you assured me that you had it covered."

He paused again, as if waiting for some reaction from the figure in front of him. Seeing none, he continued, his voice noticeably colder, "I dislike repeating myself. You are hereby removed from the active duty list until such time as the medical department deems that you are fit for service, and I personally deem you to 'have it covered'. Dismissed" he said, finally turning back to the paperwork, placing the personnel file aside and picking up another as his subordinate left the room.

-

Dazed.

That was the only way to describe him as he found himself in the park, staring at a bench. The numbness that he could feel was probably a good thing, he reasoned; the mind trying to protect itself from something that it feared. That could hurt it. He had had no idea where he was going or what he was doing when he left the office. It wasn't as if he hadn't known it was coming; it had certainly been obvious to all of his colleagues as many of them had let him know, in their own subtle ways. The disadvantage of working with spies and assassins...

"What now?" he asked himself quietly, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the bench, attempting to ignore the civilians who were staring and giving this strange, muttering ANBU a wide birth.

'Why am I out in public?' he thought, jarring himself, if only slightly, out of his stupor. With that he disappeared in a whisper of chakra, finding himself away from the strange, unsettling world of the civilian and in the shinobi sanctuary of the rooftops.

The ache, the void he had discovered in that office -somewhere between his chest and his stomach- was too much for him; he shivered unconsciously to escape it's cold, choking grasp. The realisation, the terrible realisation hit that he had nothing left. Nothing left to distract himself from the terrible guilt that followed his every conscious moment, nor the blood on his hand that he could no longer see, but would always feel. He clenched his fists, shaking slightly, and marshaled himself in a desperate effort to retain some control. 'To the mission at hand: "sort yourself out"' he thought.

With the clarity of a clear objective in mind, he found he could once again function, albeit with the spectre of madness following him like an unconcerned assassin, playing with his target. He would know after all, having done the same thing himself. He quickly came to the conclusion, much though it pained him, that he could not do this alone, and that, rationally, if he was to have any chance whatsoever, he had to seek help. Even though it was a _four-letter word_ to any shinobi.

-

Author's Notes: First draft of first Ffic. 'Nuf said.


End file.
